Extra Innings (10 page)

Luckily, Hidden Valley was in the South Division, where there were no powerhouse teams, and there was no clear winner yet. East Side was still on top, at 7–4, while the Eagles were a game behind at 6–5. The other
teams in their division had losing records and weren't going anywhere.

“Am I reading this right?” he asked Tiki. “It looks like we've got our destiny in our own hands, right?”

With one game left in the regular season, the schedule had presented the Eagles with another gift—their final opponent just happened to be the very team ahead of them, the East Side Mountaineers.

If the Eagles defeated them, the two teams would have the same record—7–5—but the Eagles would win the division because they would have beaten the Mountaineers twice head-to-head.

Ronde grinned. He and his teammates could still squeak their way into the play-offs with only a 7–5 regular season record! “Wow. You know what, Tiki? We're still in this!”

Tiki elbowed him away from the paper to get a better look. “Out of my way. I've gotta see this.”

“Hey!” Ronde said. “What's with the pushing and shoving?”

Just then their mom came into the kitchen.

“What in the world are you two fighting about?” she asked sternly.

“We're not!” Tiki explained. “We're reading the paper!”

“Looks like fighting to me.”

“No, Mom,” Ronde said. “We're looking at the standings.”

“Don't you two have finals starting today? Seems to
me you ought to be studying every spare minute. I know you both know that your studies are more important than anything—including sports.”

A brilliant flash crossed Ronde's brain. “We
are
studying, Mom!” he said, holding the paper up to show her. “See? Statistics! Math! Numbers!”

“And English!” Tiki chimed in, pointing to the paragraphs of text all over the page.

Mrs. Barber laughed. “All right, all right,” she said. “I don't know why they let baseball season go so long, right into June. But as long as you two come home with good grades, I'm okay with it.”

“We will, Mom,” Ronde promised.

But a quick exchange of glances with Tiki showed him that his twin was just as worried about their upcoming finals as Ronde was.

They'd promised her As and Bs in exchange for permission to quit their part-time jobs at the department store so they could play baseball. It was costing the family real money too, because times were tight. Mrs. Barber had been working two jobs for the past year and a half.

As the boys rode their bikes to school, they didn't say a word. Each was absorbed in his own private thoughts.

Maybe we shouldn't have gone out for baseball after all,
Ronde mused. If the Eagles missed the play-offs, he knew it would be as much his fault as anyone else's. Tiki's, too. If either one of them had caught that ball . . .
if he'd gotten just one hit, instead of all those strikeouts early in the season . . . and how about those boneheaded baserunning mistakes in their first two games?

He shook his head violently, to get those harmful, negative thoughts out of his head. This was no way to be thinking on the day of what might be their last big game at Hidden Valley! Whatever he'd done wrong up to now, he knew he and Tiki had also won a lot of games for their team.

And today they had a chance to win another one. If they could beat the Mountaineers, they'd have led their team to the division championship and the play-offs!

On the other hand, if they lost . . .

No! He couldn't let himself even think about it. He summoned back all the times in the past three years when he'd been in similar do-or-die situations. In almost every case, he and Tiki had come through and led the Eagles to victory.

Why should today be any different?

He would take the team on his shoulders, Ronde swore to himself, and lead them to victory. As he parked his bike, he remembered for the first time in many minutes that Tiki was right there next to him. The twins exchanged a serious, sober look, and Ronde knew that, as so often happened, their thoughts were running on parallel lines.

• • •

The English final was
haaaard.
Ms. Bernstein had fiendishly designed it to trip up kids who weren't paying the strictest attention during the test—or who hadn't been keeping up with the work all during the term.

There were right answers, almost-right answers, and sort-of-right answers. And then there was the
dreaded essay.
 . . .

Essays were almost always the hardest part for Ronde. Funny, because when Tiki was writing the advice column for the school paper, it was often Ronde's ideas he was putting down on paper. But when it came to actual writing, it was like Ronde's brain froze solid.

The topic for the essay was: “ARE CLICHÉS TRUE? Take a test case and prove your point.”

They had learned about clichés, and Ronde in his recent studying had gone over them. They were phrases used so often that they were presumed true, but
were
clichés true?

Ronde tried to think of a good one. Ten minutes later he was still trying to think of one, and time was running short.

All day long he'd been trying to keep thoughts of baseball out of his mind and concentrate on the tests in front of him. It hadn't been easy in math, but at least that was his best subject and the answers were what they were—not vague or confusing. The answer was right or it was wrong—period.

Still, his mind had wandered a lot. Whenever a
number reminded him of his batting average, or the standings, or had any other connection with baseball, his brain would short circuit and the two sets of numbers would get mixed up.

That was hard, but he was pretty sure he'd done okay in the end, a B at least. With English, though, it was a different story. And this, as his mom had reminded him, was even more important than sports, at least at this point in his life.

Only five minutes left till the bell rang! He
had
to write this essay. He
had
to. . . .

Finally, a cliché came to him, and sure enough, it was baseball related: “It doesn't matter whether you win or lose; it's how you play the game.” Ronde set to work, not even worrying whether what he wrote was any good—only that he wrote
something
. Handing in a blank essay page was not an option:

They say “It doesn't matter whether you win or lose; it's how you play the game.” I think both are important. I guess how you play the game is
more
important, because that's all about what kind of person you are—are you kind, are you fair, are you brave, and can you master your own weaknesses. Stuff like that.

But anyone who says winning or losing isn't important hasn't got a clue what it's like to go out there and compete. If it weren't for winning and losing, playing the game wouldn't be half as much fun.

So I think it's not fair to say it doesn't matter if you win or lose. It matters. It matters to me right now, because I'm about to go out and play a game. If my team wins, we win the division championship and go to the play-offs. If we don't, my sports career here at Hidden Valley is over.

Oh, it definitely matters whether you win or lose. At least it sure does to me. And that's how I play the game.

He sure hoped Ms. Bernstein wouldn't think he was a sports-crazy jock and give him a C or a D. But the bell was about to ring, and he had a big game to play. It was time to switch gears. After handing in his test and giving Ms. B. a serious nod, he strode into the hallway and headed for the locker room.

• • •

As he pushed open the doors to the field and trotted out to join his teammates, Ronde felt like wild ferrets were having a wrestling match in his stomach. Normally on the day of a game, he spent every minute he could preparing himself mentally to go out there and play.

But today he'd been distracted by finals. They might have been more important than baseball, but they weren't going to help him play his best.

He blew out a few deep breaths and just sat on the bench, trying to compose himself. “You all right?” Coach Raines asked him, looking concerned.

Ronde nodded but said nothing. He just needed to concentrate, to get into his “game head.” The other kids, including Tiki, were all out on the field, throwing the ball around, waiting for the game to start. But Ronde's nerves were threatening to make him “play tight,” and he needed to just breathe . . . just breathe . . .

And then it was time to play. He grabbed his mitt and ran out to center field. Five minutes of concentrating his mind had given him a new burst of energy and focus.

He was ready now. “Bring it on,” he muttered under his breath.

It was John Benson's turn to pitch, and that was a good thing. As well as Ian Lloyd had pitched, Benson had more speed on his fastball, and better control, too. They needed a good pitching performance today, and as Ronde watched, Johnny B. proceeded to strike out the side.

“Yesss!!” Ronde said, pounding his glove and heading for the dugout. He saw that Tiki was already grabbing a bat, and went over to him.

“This is it,” he told Tiki. “We got this, yo.”

“I know it,” Tiki said, nodding. “You and me, Ronde. One more time.”

They exchanged their secret handshake, and Ronde stood watching as Tiki went up to the plate.

Tiki had only one thought
in mind—to get himself on base. He dug his feet into the batter's box and got ready for the pitch. Glancing down the third base line, he saw Coach Barrett flash him the bunt sign.

As the pitch came in, Tiki squared around, and the ball hit his bat, but the bunt went skyward. Tiki muttered under his breath as he took off for first. He never stopped to see if the ball was caught in the air, but when the ump yelled “Safe!” he knew it had dropped before anyone had gotten to it.

Relieved, Tiki blew out a deep breath and took his lead as Lenny Klein stepped up to hit. Tiki knew how important it would be to get a lead on the Mountaineers. He'd seen their season statistics and knew that they gave up fewer runs than any other team in the league. In their previous meeting the Eagles had scored five runs, but
that was the most East Side had given up in any game.

So Tiki set his sights on second base, with grand larceny on his mind. He had to get himself in scoring position. The problem was, the Mountaineers' pitcher was a fireballer who got the ball to the plate quickly. And their catcher had an unbelievable arm, strong and accurate. He'd thrown out almost half the runners who'd tried to steal on him (more statistics Tiki had found in the newspaper).

So Tiki tried to time the pitcher, watch what he was doing, and guess when he might throw a curve or a changeup.

The pitcher was clever. He would take a two-second pause before winding up, then before the next pitch, take a six-second pause. It threw Tiki off just enough to freeze him at first base while Lenny struck out.

With one out it was even more important for Tiki to steal. The sooner he got himself into scoring position, the more Eagles hitters would have a chance to drive him in. Chris Jones was given the
Take
sign by Coach Barrett, but he must have missed it, because he swung at the first pitch anyway and popped up to short for the second out.

“Dang!” Tiki muttered. He knew he'd better take off on the next pitch, no matter what. Ian Lloyd saw the
Take
sign and nodded to the third base coach. Tiki got the
Steal
sign, but he would have gone even without it.

As soon as the pitcher went into his windup, Tiki was off and running. He didn't even bother to look—he knew it would be a fastball, and he knew it would be bang-bang at second. He headed for the back of the bag, his feet pointing almost into left field.

The throw came in low, and the second baseman dug it out of the dirt. He swung his mitt around to tag Tiki—but Tiki was on the outfield side of the base. He reached his hand out, grabbed the corner of the bag, and held on to stop his slide as the tag hit him on the wrist.

“Safe!” the umpire yelled, and a roar went up from the Hidden Valley faithful.

It was strike one on Ian, but now Tiki was able to get inside the pitcher's head by faking a steal of third base. Twice the pitcher turned to fake a throw, and Tiki dove back. The third time, he actually threw—and almost threw it into center field.

By the time he got around to throwing to the plate, he'd lost his pinpoint control and walked Ian on four pitches. Up came Michael Mason, loaded for bear.

Tiki knew that the pitcher wanted to get the ball over the plate now, to get his third out—Michael Mason knew it too and was waiting for it. He ripped the first pitch —a fat fastball right down the middle—over the second baseman's head and into right field.

Tiki took off at the crack of the bat, and scored easily. Eagles 1, Mountaineers 0!

Cesar Ramirez was next up, but he quickly popped out to center, and the inning was over. Tiki was glad he'd been aggressive on the base paths. Without him causing mayhem out there, the Eagles would not have grabbed the lead.

This fact grew even more important as the game went on and both pitchers proved to be tougher than the hitters. By the third inning Tiki could tell that this was going to be a low-scoring game and that runs would be at a premium. With two outs, the Mountaineers tried to mount a rally. John Benson gave up a clean single to left, then walked the next batter. The Mountaineers' cleanup man hit a liner to center field.

“Get it, Ronde!” Tiki yelled. He watched as his brother took off after it. Ronde caught it, then stumbled and did a somersault—but he held on to the ball, and another loud cheer rose from the stands as Benson's shutout was preserved, for now at least.

Tiki breathed a sigh of relief. If that ball had been lined to Ronde's left instead of his right, he and Tiki would have been on another collision course. Tiki sure hoped that didn't happen again, today or ever. With two such speedy outfielders playing side by side, two guys who could run down almost any ball hit between them, you never knew what might happen—good or bad!